


Like a Bandit

by wheel_pen



Series: Alice [10]
Category: Smallville
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Naughtiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 17:59:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Making out like a bandit can sometimes lead to embarrassing situations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Bandit

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Alice, my original female character, is new in Smallville. There is something special about her, and she and Clark form a relationship.
> 
> 2\. This series starts after the end of the second season—after the destruction of the spaceship and Clark abruptly leaving town.
> 
> 3\. Underage warning: This story may contain human or human-like teenagers, in high school, in sexual situations.
> 
> 4\. The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

Sex, Death, and Anarchy

_junior year, early October_

 

            Clark couldn’t really blame Alice for not wanting to go back to the barn. After all, having a building full of old boards and straw spontaneously catch fire while you were in it would put almost _anyone_ off. Clark honestly had no idea what had caused the roof of the barn to burst into flames like that—as he’d _repeatedly_ told his father, he was certain his heat vision didn’t go off (that being a sensation _extremely_ unlikely to go unnoticed), and there hadn’t been anyone else around for miles. It could have been faulty wiring, heat lightning... Of course, this being Smallville, most disasters had _some_ kind of unusual origin. This one, however, remained a mystery.

            So now they were in Clark’s truck, parked on the side of the road, partially hidden from passing cars by a copse of trees. Darkness had already fallen, making it even less likely they would be discovered. Alice was wearing a tight black t-shirt with mesh sleeves with the words “Sex, Death, and Anarchy” scrawled across it, a black miniskirt decorated with what Clark had decided were crossed swords, and a pair of chunky, buckly, almost-knee-high black boots. Clark was wearing blue jeans, a red t-shirt, and a blue-and-white plaid flannel shirt, his concession to the cooler weather. He had a feeling the other movie-goers in the lobby of the theater that night had noticed they didn’t exactly _match_ , but Clark wasn’t going to let that bother him.

            One thing that _did_ bother him, however, was the fact that the truck had been parked safely on the side of the road for all of thirty seconds now, and Alice was still sitting on the passenger side, with her seatbelt on. A few months ago, he thought, he would have sat stiffly in place as well, tormenting himself with the idea that she didn’t really want to be there with him, that she didn’t really _like_ him in that way... but that was a few months ago, last spring, before he’d even met Alice, and he was consciously trying to _not_ be so hesitant when it came to relationships. So he reached over, carefully, and tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

            “Hey,” he began, smiling, “you look really pretty tonight.” The look she gave him sent the smile fleeing, however. It wasn’t angry, it was more—sad. Those big blue eyes were enough to drown in. “What’s wrong?”

            She didn’t want to tell him, he could see that, but he scooted closer and let his fingers drift down her neck to her shoulder. She closed her eyes at the contact, then opened them with a sigh. “My mom was—really freaked about the—barn thing,” she confessed quietly.

            Clark frowned a little bit, but he refused to feel guilty. Even if he couldn’t always control his powers, even if perhaps he hadn’t experienced them all yet, he always knew when he was _using_ one of them. The barn catching on fire had absolutely, completely _not_ been his fault. Barring any indirect responsibility if it was caused by, say, an unknown meteor mutant, of course. “Alice, that was just—“ Clark tried to think up a plausible explanation as he toyed with her hair. She seemed to like that, and so did he. “I don’t know, it could have been just a spark from the machinery or a car on the road or something. The barn’s pretty dry this time of year, after all.”

            Her expression was strange, almost—furtive, and for a moment he wondered if she knew more about the fire than _he_ did. But she had been _with_ him when it started, and he had checked a dozen times, there hadn’t been anyone else in the vicinity. “And it really wasn’t that bad, anyway,” he continued lightly. “I mean, it’s just a couple boards to replace.”

            She nodded, unconvinced. “It was just kind of—scary, and after the—thing in Gotham—“

            Clark scooted closer, sliding his arm all the way around her shoulders. It felt kind of strange to him, to be this... aggressive with a girl he liked, although he had to admit putting your arm around the girl you’d just been on a date with wasn’t _exactly_ the most aggressive move in the world. Still, it was above average for _him_. “Yeah, it was kind of scary,” he agreed, “but everything worked out okay.” He wondered if she had a phobia about fire now, after being trapped in that burning building in Gotham City. “Are _you_ okay?” He nudged her chin up to look him in the eye.

            She smiled, a little bit. “Yeah,” she told him. “It’s just—it’s more my mom, she didn’t really _want_ me to...” Clark raised his eyebrows at her, and Alice admitted, “She doesn’t exactly _know_ I was going out with you tonight.”

            Clark frowned. “Your mom didn’t want you to go to the movie with me?” That was kind of a new sensation for him, being the guy a mother warned her daughter _away_ from. Not that he was cocky about it, of course, it just seemed like the sister of the woman who ran the grocery store or the friend of the clerk at the post office always had a niece about his age in Grandville who would just be _perfect_ for him, if they just got together... Only the people who knew him _better_ would tell their daughter Clark Kent was just a little too weird to get involved with, he reflected with a slight amount of bitterness.

            “She’s just kind of—protective of me,” Alice assured him firmly. “I mean, it’s not _you_ in particular. She’s suspicious of everybody.”

            “What did you tell her you were doing tonight?” he queried, in case anyone should ask.

            “I said you and I were going to study, at the Talon,” Alice admitted with a grim smile. “A nice public location, you know? If she hears from someone—one of her gossipy customers, no doubt—that we were at the movies, I’ll just tell her it was a last-minute decision.”

            Clark narrowed his eyes at her. He, more than anyone, had no right to be objecting to deceptions, but... “You know, Alice, I don’t really want to sneak around all the time,” he began delicately, “if we’re going to _keep_ going on dates, I mean...”

            She frowned. “Do you _want_ to keep going on dates?”

            “Yes.”

            She smiled. “So do I.” She squirmed around to unbuckle her seatbelt. “I think she’ll get used to it. I mean, it’s not like we’re doing anything _bad_.”

            _Not yet, anyway,_ Clark thought, eyes sweeping over her. But he could definitely see the potential.

            “And it’s not like you’re a total stranger,” Alice continued, scooting close against him under his arm. “I’ve known you for _months_.”

            “Practically forever,” Clark agreed dryly. Alice gave him a look that suggested if he wanted her to cross the inches left between their lips, he had better lose that attitude. Clark complied as best he knew how.

            He was not surprised to discover that making out in a truck—and he was _making out_ in a _truck_ with a _girl_ who was _Alice_ —was a little awkward, but it was awkward in ways he wouldn’t have predicted. For some reason Clark had thought the arms, and body in general, would be the hardest to maneuver; instead it turned out to be the _legs_ that didn’t seem to have an appropriate place to go, especially since on both he and Alice the leg regions took up a bit more room than on the average person. And he had to be extra careful, to avoid both injuring Alice _and_ leaving large, suspicious dents in the dashboard of the truck.

            Still, somehow they persevered.

            Clark, with the longer, heavier legs, eventually ended up on the bottom with his feet tucked beneath the steering column; Alice, who seemed to have a greater degree of _flexibility_ , managed to find places to store _her_ legs that apparently involved parts of Clark he wasn’t currently using. Despite his earlier bout of “aggression,” Clark definitely didn’t want to push too hard; he’d never had a girlfriend for more than a few days, anyway, so he restricted his hands to her waist, arms, shoulders, hair... Well, it was really the areas he kept his hands _away_ from that were more important. He didn’t want Alice to think he was some grabby, lecherous kind of guy, after all.

            And Clark could hardly complain, even with his self-imposed boundaries. He could nibble Alice’s lips, chase her tongue with his, nip at her earlobes, lick his way down her neck, listen to the little sounds she made while he did those things all day long. He had to remember to let her breathe, which actually wasn’t difficult because even though he _didn’t_ need oxygen he still found himself panting, especially when he felt her teeth at his neck and her fingernails down his sides. _Don’t squeeze too hard_ , he reminded himself fiercely, frequently drawing back to look at her face, meet her gaze, get her to smile, make sure that everything was fine, that he wasn’t crushing any vital organs or bones.

            Clark had just started to think that maybe he _couldn’t_ do this all day, because for whatever indefinable reason the feelings had started to _escalate_ , when he noticed the car headlights raking over them. Not a big deal; he had been dimly aware of several vehicles going by during the time they’d been parked there. But the angle of the light was wrong—more like, the car had pulled over and was _facing_ them. Not a good sign. Alice noticed it, too, and kept quiet when Clark flipped her over so he could see out the windshield. For a moment he was blinded by the headlights—and then he recognized the car, as well as the person walking towards him from it.

            This was going to be embarrassing, Clark decided. But not necessarily devastating.

            There was a knock on the passenger side window and Clark rolled it down. “Clark! Are you okay?” a familiar voice asked in concern.

            “Um, yeah, Lex, everything’s fine,” Clark assured him, peering up from his awkward position on the seat.

            Lex did not appear to be convinced. “I saw your truck on the side of the road—I thought maybe you’d had a... flat tire or something.” Or, you know, been attacked by a giant mutant squirrel, this being Smallville.

            Clark wasn’t sure how to answer to convince Lex he was fine without giving up Alice’s presence. Of course, with the way Lex was staring determinedly into the cab of the truck, any minute now he was going to—

            “Alice?” Lex asked in surprise, spotting her.

            Clark sighed and opened his mouth to say—something, when suddenly another voice carried through the night. “ _Alice_?”

            Alice struggled to sit up, confusion evident. “ _Mom_?”

            Ms. Wilson was climbing out of Lex’s Porsche and stalking over to them, and she did _not_ look amused. “Alice, what are you doing in Clark’s truck?” the older woman demanded, looking over their disheveled clothing and their positions on the seat that did not quite correspond to the Rules of the Road.

            Alice was giving her mother the examining eye as well, taking in her little black dress and extra make-up, as well as Lex’s dressy attire. “What are _you_ doing in Lex’s car?” she shot back, clearly perturbed.

            Awkward silence prevailed for a long, long moment. Then Lex suggested tactfully, “Who votes we all just go back to what we were doing and pretend this incident never occurred?”

            Clark and Lex’s hands shot up immediately, with Alice’s following shortly thereafter. Meg Wilson, however, crossed her arms firmly over her chest and requested coldly, “Alice, can I speak to you for a moment?”

            Heaving the exasperated sigh of teenage girls everywhere, Alice maneuvered herself out of the truck and followed her mother a few feet away, where a heated discussion began. Clark carefully tuned it out and resigned himself to the fact that whatever the result, his first non-red-K-induced vehicular make-out session was probably over.

            “So,” Lex commented, leaning against the truck beside the open door. “You and Alice, huh?”

            “So,” Clark parroted dryly, “you and Alice’s _mom_ , huh?”

            Lex shrugged, undaunted. “Opposites attract, I suppose,” he decided finally.

            “A hairdresser and a bald guy?” Clark suggested lightly.

            “I was thinking more of ‘Farmboy Flannel meets Miss Sex, Death, and Anarchy,’” Lex replied.

            “Alice is really nice,” Clark assured him. “We actually have a lot of things in common. Just not our fashion sense.” He suddenly remembered something. “Hey, you’ve been holding out on me, though,” Clark accused teasingly. “Alice found _your_ purple silk shirt on the floor of her _mom’s_ bedroom like, a _month_ ago.”

            Lex let a little smirk slide onto his face and didn’t make eye contact with Clark, whose grin slowly broadened. He nudged the older man in the shoulder. “It might have been kind of... awkward,” Lex finally confessed. “If it had only been a... brief thing, I mean.”

            “So it’s _not_ a brief thing?” Clark prodded. He would never have put Alice’s iron-clad mother and Lex together—they seemed to have come from such different worlds. Although, he reflected quickly, that was _literally_ true in the case of him and Alice, and Clark at least wasn’t seeing it as an impediment at this point.

            “Too soon to tell,” Lex hedged, but Clark could tell from his voice that he was allowing himself to be slightly hopeful. Clark really wished it would work out for his friend, no matter how oddly-matched he and Ms. Wilson seemed on the outside; Lex deserved a _lot_ better than those women who only wanted him for his money or influence (especially those that tried to control his mind and then kill him).

            Now the argument between Alice and her mother was becoming too loud for even Lex to ignore. “Looks like you struck a nerve,” he observed sardonically. Both women fell silent, staring each other down with a stubbornness that reminded Clark of him and _his_ father.

            “She said her mom is kind of overprotective,” Clark ventured helplessly, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to avoid feeling guilty much longer.

            “I would have to agree with that,” Lex told him. “At least over _some_ things.” Why it was perfectly okay for Alice to walk home from the Talon, by herself, at ten o’clock at night, even in Smallville, but Clark Kent’s barn in broad daylight was suspicious and on the verge of being forbidden, Lex still hadn’t figured out. “I think it’s not _you_ , Clark,” he assured his friend, although that was possibly a lie. “I think it’s just guys in general.”

            “Great,” Clark muttered.

            The “discussion” between the Wilson women seemed to have ended, although neither side looked especially happy. Alice stomped back to Clark’s truck and he knew to scoot out of her way quickly as she climbed in, slamming the door with a surprising amount of force. Her posture was so tense he didn’t even want to ask what was going on.

            “I expect you to be home in _ten minutes_ , young lady,” Ms. Wilson reminded her daughter. “Clark, did you hear that?”

            “Yes, ma’am,” he answered quickly.

            “When are _you_ going to be home?” Alice snarled out the window, as Lex and her mother moved back towards the Porsche.

            “Whenever I d—n well feel like it, and don’t take that tone of voice with me,” Ms. Wilson replied shortly. She also slammed her car door shut hard enough to rattle the vehicle.

            Clark heard the Porsche’s motor rev up, but it didn’t move. He figured they were waiting for the truck to leave first, so he reluctantly turned it on and pulled back onto the road. Sure enough, the Porsche was right behind them.

            “She’s going to have Lex tail us all the way home,” Alice ground out.

            “Um...” Clark wasn’t exactly sure what the appropriate response to this situation was. “Alice, I’m sorry the night kind of ended... not so great.” _Oh, that was smooth._

            She sighed and some of the anger ebbed away. “No, it’s _my_ fault, Clark,” she assured him. “Guys are one of my mom’s _issues_ ,” she explained vaguely. “And it didn’t help that the whole—fire thing in Gotham happened when I was with a guy, so...”

            “That was Jake, right?” Clark asked carefully as they turned onto Alice’s street. “Wasn’t he just a friend?”

            Alice huffed in frustration and Clark wondered if perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut. “I don’t even _know_ ,” she replied with irritation. “At the time the fire broke out, we were _more_ than friends, but... I don’t think we would have stayed that way, no matter what.” She turned to Clark as he pulled the truck into Alice’s driveway, ignoring the Porsche that idled on the street nearby. “Sometimes I’m glad I moved, Clark,” she confessed, sounding a little bit guilty about it. “I was really upset at first, of course, but... now I understand better what Mom meant when she said a ‘fresh start’ would be good.” She laughed a little bitterly; Clark didn’t like the sound. “It’s a brand-new place to screw up in.”

            “Is that all Smallville has to offer?” he asked, trying for neutral.

            Alice smiled at him, slowly, then leaned across the cab of the truck and kissed him soundly. “It also has _great_ coffee,” she told him cheekily, and he grinned. Clark leaned in for another kiss but the horn of the Porsche blared at him—he imagined Lex being quietly horrified that anyone had dared touch a button in his car without his permission (because he was pretty sure Alice’s mom was the one leaning on the horn). Alice rolled her eyes. “I’ll see you later, okay?” she promised, sliding out of the car.

            “Okay.” He watched to make sure she got up the sidewalk and into the house alright, then backed out past the Porsche and headed home himself.

 

********

That Was Mean

_junior year, December-January-ish_

 

            The couch in the loft was not the most comfortable imaginable, being on the whole a little too short and a little too narrow to fit two people in horizontal positions. Still, Clark and Alice were nothing if not willing to accept a challenge. And really, Clark thought, they were doing pretty well, with Alice balanced above him, her hands on either side of his head, teasing him with kisses that ended too quickly for his liking.

            He tried to pull her hips down to his, but she resisted and he loosened his hold immediately. “Oh, come on, Clark,” she teased breathily, nipping at his lower lip. “Is that the best you can do?”

            “Don’t wanna hurt you,” he mumbled, lifting his head in an attempt to capture her mouth a little longer.

            “You won’t, baby,” she assured him, arching her back. “I guarantee it.”

            A slow grin spread across Clark’s face and he tried again, tugging until any normal person would have been bruised, even broken. Still Alice just gave him a cheeky smile that clearly said, put some _muscle_ into it.

            Clark was just about to seriously apply himself when his heightened hearing picked up the sound of footsteps below. Alice heard it as well and stilled above him.

            “Clark?” Clark tensed at the sound of the voice in the barn as Alice made a face of pure disdain. He tried to tell her, wordlessly, to be nice, but he knew it was a fruitless effort. “Clark? Are you in here?” Clark opened his mouth to answer when suddenly Alice covered it with her hand, resulting in a strange, cut-off mumble. The footsteps paused at the bottom of the stairs. “Clark?”

            Alice moaned. A breathy, hiccupy, guttural, g-----n sexy moan that went straight from Clark’s ears south, and although he couldn’t see what had triggered it, he knew he wanted it to occur again, quite soon. She repeated the sound, and he looked frantically to see what he might be doing to elicit it. “Ohhhhhh, Clark!” Alice winked at him, and his eyes widened. The footsteps on the stair had stopped. Dead still. “Ohhhhh, Clark, yes!” Alice’s expression indicated he should follow suit, but Clark set his jaw and refused to play along. Narrowing her eyes dangerously, Alice’s moans became higher-pitched, faster, more panting. “Clark, harder, please!” She rocked her hips down against him, and in spite of himself—not to mention the third person on the stairs—he felt his body responding. Of course, Alice felt it, too, and her efforts became even more determined.

            Clark thought of sock puppets and staplers and dolphins and platypuses, or were they platypi, and vitamins and alarm clocks and spelling bees and anything else that might distract him from what exactly Alice was doing. Name the countries of Africa—Egypt, Ethiopia, Nairobi, Kenya, um, South Africa, the Congo—“Holy _f—k_ , Alice!”

            Alice grinned evilly and sat up from where she’d bitten him, clean through the t-shirt. Well _that_ tear was going to be hard to explain. She raised up a bit to stare out the loft opening, watching the back of Lana Lang as she retreated at top speed to her car in the driveway. She looked back down at Clark with an expression that could only be described as _smug_. He glared back.

            “That was _mean_ ,” he pointed out sharply.

            Alice’s face was frequently like a Wheel of Fortune of expressions—you saw a number cycle by, and you could never be sure which one it would stop on. Finally a sort of false contrition won out, after fortunately bypassing anger and flip disregard. “I’m _sorry_ , Clark,” she purred, running her hands over his stomach, and he knew—he _knew_ —she wasn’t sorry in the least, but it felt d—n good. “It’s just... Lana’s always staring at you with those _moist, gooey_ eyes, and—“

            Clark caught her off-guard and flipped the two of them over on the couch, although it took some superhuman strength and speed from both to keep them from tumbling to the floor. “Lana does _not_ look at me with ‘moist, gooey’ eyes,” he protested, as if that were the most ridiculous idea he had heard all day.

            Alice arched an eyebrow at him. “A,” she began, and Clark sighed and dropped his head on her chest. “A, moist, gooey eyes. B, constant invitations to study at her place when it will be ‘just the two of you,’ because she _knows_ I’m at the Talon. C, longing, puppyish gazes in your direction. D—“

            “Oh, G-d, there’s a ‘D’?” Clark complained, his voice muffled.

            “D,” Alice repeated firmly, “leading comments and questions such as, ‘I’m surprised your parents are comfortable with you seeing Alice’ and ‘Do you remember that time we went horseback riding along Rocky Point?’”

            Clark looked up at her. “How do you know Lana said that?”

            “You’re not the only one with superhearing, boyo,” Alice told him archly. Clark squirmed back down against her, resigned, and she ran her hand through his dark curls. “It irritates me,” she added quietly, after a moment.

            “Lana and I have a pretty long history, Alice,” Clark reminded her gently, closing his eyes and relaxing under her touch.

            “The operative word being ‘history,’” she pointed out.

            Reluctantly he pulled himself back up on his elbows and gazed down at her. “Don’t you trust me, Alice?” he asked seriously.

            “Of course I trust _you_ ,” Alice assured him, reaching up to pull him into a kiss. “But _she_ acts like this is just some... experiment with the ‘bad girl,’ some _phase_ you’re going through.”

            Clark smiled. “You’re not a ‘bad girl,’ Alice,” he told her, nuzzling her lips lightly. She lifted her head to deepen the kiss but he pulled back playfully. “You’re a ‘nice girl.’ My mom said so.”

            Alice smirked. “Your mom doesn’t know me too well.”

            “Sure she does. She’s a very good judge of character.”

            “Can we not talk about your mother right now?”

            Clark grinned at that, then sobered a little. “Seriously, Alice, whatever I had with Lana is _long_ over,” he insisted. “It was... painful, and confusing, and, I don’t know... I would never have felt comfortable _telling_ her anything, even though I knew how much she wanted to know.”

            Clark sighed and turned on his side, leaning against the back of the couch. This forced Alice to turn to face him on the narrow sofa. She curled up against him and asked, a bit more timidly than usual, “Clark, you don’t... I mean, you don’t just like me because I’m not going to get _hurt_ , do you?”

            It wasn’t as if she’d expected him to _say_ ‘yes’ or something like that—but Clark was honest to a fault and she knew she would be able to read it in his face, if that’s what he were thinking. She didn’t have a chance to examine his expression, however, since Clark immediately pulled her up into a long, slow, deep kiss that took full advantage of the fact that neither of them really needed oxygen to function. It was a kiss that plainly said, “There is no way in h—l that would ever be true... although it’s certainly a plus.”

            “Alice, I liked you long before I even _knew_ you couldn’t get hurt,” he reminded her a few moments later. “I didn’t—I didn’t _want_ to get involved with someone, but I just—couldn’t stay away from you.”

            This confession seemed to reassure her. “Yeah?”

            “Yeah.”

            “That’s good to know. But I only like you because you’re fireproof,” Alice countered lightly, snuggling against him.

            “I understand that.”

            “And also you’re cute.”

            “Well, that will probably fade in time,” Clark reasoned. “And you’ve never seen me first thing in the morning, either.”

            “Oooh, I’ll take that as an invitation,” Alice teased.

            “Yeah, let’s go ask my _mom_ about that...”

            “What did I tell you about bringing up your _mother_ at a time like this...”

 

******

Overheated

_summer between junior and senior year_

 

            The lake was not exactly an original spot for making out on a summer’s evening. In fact, looking across the water sparkling in the moonlight, one could see the headlights, flashlights, and campfires of any number of couples who’d been drawn to the natural beauty of the lakeshore to while away a few dark hours in the pursuit of romantic and/or carnal pleasure.

            Of course, one couldn’t see these things if one’s eyes were closed. And if one were facing the opposite direction. And lying down in the cab of a truck, feet dangling out the open door at one end because the truck just wasn’t designed for people that tall to stretch out comfortably.

            Alice’s black knee-high boots twined around Clark’s dark work boots and blue jeans, their legs straining to be as close as possible. Her hands were in his hair, on his chest, his back, his hips, anywhere she could grab to bring as much of their bodies into contact with each other as possible. Clark for his part was trying his best to never have his hands or his lips touch anything that wasn’t Alice—preferably skin and not just clothes—and the only sounds for half a mile around were soft moans, breathy gasps, and the rasp of skin against fabric.

            At least, until the blue Trans Am pulled up next to them and honked obnoxiously.

            “Yo, Clark! I _know_ you’re in there, man!”

            “S—t.” Clark reluctantly pulled himself up and looked blearily out the rolled-down window, his vision still focusing. “Hey, Pete,” he managed, in a tone of voice that was not _completely_ murderous.

            “You see?” Pete was telling the dark-haired girl beside him in the car, “my man Clark, he knows _all_ the good spots.” He gestured at the bulk of the cars, which were arrayed on the other side of the lake, leaving Clark—well, Clark and Pete—with the only two vehicles on the ridge. “We know the ladies appreciate a little... _privacy_.” Clark could almost _see_ Pete waggling his eyebrows suggestively, and he rolled his eyes.

            “Tell him about the mosquitoes,” Alice whispered insistently, still lying across the seat. “Tell him he might get malaria.” The swarms of mosquitoes—which naturally didn’t bother Clark or Alice—were what had kept the other “stargazers” away from this particular part of the lake.

            “Um, Pete, the thing is,” Clark began, trying hard to concentrate on the conversation he was supposed to be having, especially with Alice sliding her hands under his t-shirt, “the thing is, there’s... bugs, and...” Frankly Clark couldn’t remember why that was a problem.

            The dark-haired girl in Pete’s car leaned forward as Pete leaned back. “Hayley Matthews,” Pete pointed out, by way of introduction. “Hayley, Clark Kent.”

            “Oh, yeah,” she replied. Her voice was... grating. “Yeah, I’ve seen you around school. You’re real tall.”

            “Um, thanks,” Clark answered politely. Alice snickered beneath him.

            Hayley rose up a bit, as if she were trying to look into the truck. “You all by yourself in there, Clark?” she asked with a smirk.

            A pale fist rose into sight above the door, middle finger topped by a black nail prominently displayed. Hayley gave a squawk of indignation. Clark grabbed Alice’s hand and jerked it back down, sending a weak, apologetic grin back to the Trans AM. Before Pete and Hayley could respond, however, Clark’s head was jerked back down out of sight and the window was quickly rolled up. Pete just smirked, shook his head, and decided to focus on his _own_ company.

            “Shut the door,” Alice hissed into Clark’s ear, and he hurried to comply, sealing them inside the truck even though it meant their legs didn’t have quite enough room to maneuver without catching on the steering wheel, the dashboard, or the sunshields. A fair amount of awkwardness followed as they readjusted their positions, but Clark for one didn’t notice it, as he was busy stripping off his t-shirt and “helping” Alice with her own buttons. Which mostly ended up spilled across the floor and seats.

            “Sorry,” he mumbled, nuzzling her neck just beneath her jaw.

            “S’okay,” she assured him, nipping at his earlobe. “Shoulda known better anyway...”

            She could feel the muscles rippling in his back under her hands, hot and smooth and strong, and she groaned as his hands slid up to cup her breasts, thumbs running gently over the nipples through the thin fabric of her black lace bra. He almost pulled away, still hesitant in his touches sometimes, and she responded by wrapping an arm around his neck and pulling his lips down to her collarbone, breastbone, the sweat-slicked valley between her breasts.

            Clark thought he was going to die, he really did. His heart was beating so fast he thought it would surely break through his chest, and there were... other parts of his anatomy that were getting rather uncomfortable and difficult to contain as well. Alice’s leg slipped up over his thigh, rocking their hips closer together, and they both groaned. They had to stop this pretty soon, Clark thought, but the advice sounded rambling and unconvincing in his mind. They had to take a breath, take a break, before something happened, something that they really weren’t quite ready for—

            He forced his hand down Alice’s side, over her ribs, away from the temptation of the black lace bra. And then he found himself going for the temptation of the black leather boots. G-d, he was really developing a boot fetish, wasn’t he, running his fingers over the smooth, hot leather like it was Alice’s own skin, and then it _was_ her skin, at the back of the knee where the boot ended. A little higher, a little higher, and she was still smooth, and hot, and he could feel the muscles under his fingers but she was still softer there than he expected. He yanked his hand up to her waist, but he was _under_ her obscenely short black skirt now, and it wasn’t too much of a diversion to tentatively, very tentatively, slide his hand back down again, in the middle, where she was soft and wet and impossibly hot. Her hips jerked against his fingers and she moaned, head flung back, fingers buried in his hair, just holding on with a strength that would have been painful to anyone else, and his hand rocked against her, exploring, pushing farther back, pushing harder, feeling the texture of the satiny fabric and somehow knowing it was replacing his own fingerprints on his skin.

            “Clark,” she whispered roughly against his neck, and he bit his lip, concentrating on the sensations at his fingertips and nowhere else, except for the little whining, needy sounds she was making in his ear. A plan was starting to form in his fogged mind, a plan utilizing the inherent defenselessness of satin to the strength in superhuman fingers, when suddenly there was a loud _pop_ and the truck lurched a bit.

            Even _that_ wouldn’t have stopped Clark—not that Alice would have let him go at that point anyway—but a moment later there was a furious pounding on the steam-fogged window. Alice muttered a variety of colorful curses and attempted to pull her shirt closed again, although since it was designed to be rather tight there wasn’t much give to it. Clark reluctantly—very reluctantly—pulled his hands free and rolled the window back down. Pete stared worriedly inside, though he visibly jumped back when Alice gave him a glare of death.

            “Clark, um—“ He gestured vaguely towards the front of the truck, and Clark shoved himself up enough to stick his head out the window and look for himself. The hood of the truck had popped up a few inches and steam was hissing out furiously. “Dude, your radiator overheated or something.”

            “Pete Ross,” Alice growled, shoving Clark aside as she rose up on her knees and started to push herself through the window, “so help me _G-d_ I’m gonna rip off your—“

            “Alice!” Given that her shirt was really more theoretical than functional at this point, the teenage girl made quite the spectacle hanging out the truck window in the dark, and like any red-blooded straight teenage male Pete couldn’t help but look. Clark struggled up from the floor where he’d been stuck and yanked her back inside, glaring at Pete in her place.

            “Don’t look at _me_ , man,” Pete protested, as Clark climbed over Alice and opened the door of the truck. Clark lifted the hood of the truck all the way, waving away the billows of steam that appeared out of habit rather than necessity, and tried to determine what damage exactly they had done this time, and if it would be fixable tonight. Pete wandered over and started pensively at the engine, as if he and Clark were engaged in some manly contemplation of the machinery. Clark glanced at his friend, wondering how awkward it was going to be to hint that this effect was the result of his not-so-local heritage—and how often Pete was going to rib him about it—when he noticed that Hayley was still in the Trans Am, on the passenger side of the front seat, with no apparent disarray in her attire. She slapped _hard_ at a mosquito on her arm. Pete nudged Clark and whispered, conspiratorially, “So... what were you _doing_ , exactly?”

            Clark smiled, shook his head, and x-rayed the engine quickly, hoping his power wasn’t going to make Alice sick on top of... frustrated. “Just, um... just got a little carried away,” he assured Pete.

 

******

What _Did_ Happen to the Couch?

_autumn, senior year_

 

            A few months ago, Clark would have stopped her earlier. A few months from now, maybe, he wouldn’t stop her at all. The latter thought didn’t help his composure at all as he jerked his head back against the couch, biting his lip and trying very hard not to crush the arm of the couch he gripped in one hand. Today he would settle for her stopping her... soon. In a minute. Not yet though.

            Alice’s hand slid across his inner thigh for a moment, feeling his heat through the denim, then returned to the spot that had Clark clenching his fist at his hip until the knuckles turned white. “You made me overheat the radiator in your truck,” she reminded him, whispering devilishly in his ear, and a moan slipped out as Clark remembered. Alice skimmed her fingers along the waistband of his jeans, then flicked the button open. “Let’s see what _I_ can make boil over...”

            Okay, yeah, he should stop her. Okay, maybe _after_ she got the zipper down. Okay, well, now that she had the zipper down, might as well wait until she’d—“F—k, Alice!” Clark hissed, not quite succeeding in his efforts to keep his hips from bucking into her hand.

            She laughed coyly and nibbled at his earlobe. “I hope so eventually,” she promised him, and his eyes rolled back in his head.

            Would it be possible for him to x-ray his own brain, with his eyes rolled back in his head? Clark thought desperately, trying not to focus _quite_ so much on the strong, hot fingers memorizing the fabric of his boxers, rubbing lightly up and down in a way that was, obviously he supposed, _so much better_ than his own personal attentions, unpredictable and teasing and g-----n sexy just _because_ it was another person, and not just any other person but a beautiful girl, and not just _any_ beautiful girl but _Alice_...

            Alice, who was—good G-d— _licking_ her way across his collarbone, whose fingers were getting bolder and tighter, who was occasionally looking up from _licking him_ to murmur things like, “Hmm, what’s this part here?” and “Good thing these boxers are stretchy,” and “Wow, I didn’t expect it to be so _wet_.” Clark moved his other hand to grab the back of the couch, because he needed to grab _something_ and he sure as h—l wasn’t going to distract Alice from what she was doing, and he really _really_ needed to tell her to stop, because the framework of the couch was starting to creak and he could feel the tightness building up in his body, and G-d, no, he wasn’t ready to—

            And then she lifted her head from his chest and _bit_ him, right where his neck met his shoulder, like she was trying to puncture a vein. Clark felt his hand slip, heard a sound like wood splintering, but there was another sensation rapidly spiraling out of control in his body, a familiar but entirely _un_ welcome one. “Alice, stop—“ Too late. His eyes were burning, the lids forced open by the energy spewing out from behind them, and it was all Clark could do to turn his head away from Alice before the twin jets of flame shot out across the room.

            Something cool—compared to _fire_ , anyway—clapped over his eyes and he felt the pulses begin to diminish. Clark was panting even though he didn’t really need to breathe and he collapsed back onto the couch, his muscles (most of them anyway) suddenly loosening. He reached up to feel the object over his eyes and realized it was Alice’s hand. “Alice, doesn’t that hurt?!” he demanded, trying to pull back.

            She wouldn’t let him. “No, it doesn’t hurt,” she assured him, still pressed tightly against him on the narrow couch. “It feels pretty good, actually, kind of warm and tingly. I wouldn’t mind feeling it other places...”

            “G-d, Alice, don’t...” he begged.

            “Hmmm,” she murmured, mock-critically, “not _exactly_ the kind of explosion I was expecting. Did you...?” She brushed her knee experimentally over his groin and he jerked, hard, and involuntarily, at the contact, his groan almost one of pain. “Guess not. Interesting.” Clark had the feeling he would be offended later when he thought about this, but at the moment his brain was completely scrambled. Alice peeked underneath her hand. “Okay under there for the moment?” Clark nodded weakly as the heat began to diminish. “Good. ‘Cause I have to put this fire out.”

            “ _What_?” Clark jerked himself into a sitting position and risked opening an eye. The wooden table in the loft had a neat row of flame dancing across it, licking out at their half-done algebra homework. Well, the answers probably weren’t right anyway, Clark decided in resignation, watching Alice swiftly pour the remains of their sodas on the fire to douse it. At least he hadn’t blasted the dry wooden walls, or the many bales of hay stacked all around them. _J---s, Clark,_ he chided himself, flopping back on the couch with his arm over his eyes, _why don’t you just make out in a room full of gunpowder?_

            “There, all better,” Alice pronounced. She made a grimacing sort of noise and Clark peered out from under his arm to see her holding up his dripping algebra book. Or rather, the half of it that _hadn’t_ been burnt to a crisp. “Maybe ‘all better’ was a bit of an overstatement.”

            “Oh, G-d,” Clark sighed hopelessly.

            Alice knelt down on the floor beside him, since there wasn’t any room on the couch with Clark sprawled all over it. She discreetly swept aside the large pieces of wood, fabric, and stuffing that used to compose part of the back of the couch—Clark would probably notice the chunk taken out of the furniture eventually, no need to burden him with it at the moment—and leaned her chin on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Clark,” she told him, wrinkling her nose a little. She wasn’t sure she _was_ sorry, but it seemed like the thing to say.

            “No, I just, um...” Clark trailed off, face bright red under his arm. Yeah, like he would be making eye contact with anyone anytime soon—and _not_ because he was afraid he might fry them. “I haven’t done that in a really long time,” he added, his embarrassment low, painful, and torturously drawn-out.

            Alice rubbed his chest—more in a comforting way than in a sexy way, but given that his shirt was still somewhere on the stairs below and she was, you know, still Alice, Clark wasn’t sure it was helping much. “Well, I’m flattered,” she decided cheerfully. “And hey, I set the roof on fire, remember?”

            “ _And_ you overheated the radiator,” he grumbled, only half petulant.

            She smiled. “Yeah. But _you_ broke the window in the truck.”

            He grinned a little in spite of himself and she poked his ribs when she saw it. “Yeah, I did, didn’t I? I still can’t believe my dad bought that ‘patch of ice, big tree branch’ story.” Really, what Clark couldn’t believe was that he’d managed to _tell_ it so well.

            They were quiet for a moment, companionable, as Clark contemplated coming out from behind his arm. He glanced around experimentally, then jerked his arm away and sat up, almost knocking Alice aside as he stared at the back of the couch. Alice winced a bit at his reaction. “Holy s—t,” he sighed once he’d assessed the damage. Clark rolled over onto his side, back to Alice, and buried his face in the couch. What remained of it, anyway. He was never facing daylight again.

            “Oh, come on, baby, it’s not that bad,” Alice assured him, climbing onto the much-abused piece of furniture behind him. She rubbed his shoulder and added after a moment, “I had fun, anyway.”

            “Oh, good for you,” Clark muttered sarcastically.

            “I learned a lot of new things,” Alice protested, trying to keep the smirk out of her voice. She threw her arm around his waist and squeezed him, hard. “Clark, you’re my favorite toy _ever_ ,” Alice sighed happily, cuddling against him. Clark tried to feel disturbed by those words but found himself smiling a little bit instead. “Even better than my Xena action figures.”

            “Better than Xena?” he scoffed. “Now I _know_ you’re just trying to make me feel better.”

            “Nope, it’s true.” She nibbled the back of his neck and even though he knew he shouldn’t, Clark found himself leaning into it.

            “Alice,” he warned half-heartedly. “What am I going to tell Mrs. Gustafson about the algebra book?”

            “Tell her your truck caught fire, and you’re lucky to be alive,” Alice answered immediately. “That happens pretty often to you anyway.”

            “And what am I going to tell my parents?” he prodded further.

            Alice’s answer wasn’t quite so fast this time. “Um... I thought of the last one!” she finally declared.

            Clark sighed and took her hand. He hoped he learned to control that... spontaneous heat vision reaction a little better, or their sex life was doomed to be non‑existent forever.

 

            His parents stopped talking and looked up when he opened the kitchen door, which Clark knew was a bad sign. He really should have given in to his urge to use his superhearing from the road to find out what, exactly, he was in trouble for this time.

            “Hey, Mom, Dad,” Clark greeted cheerfully, hoping he could scoot up to his room before they had a chance to confront him.

            “Wait just a minute there, young man,” his father commanded sternly. Clark reflected that the whole ‘escape confrontation’ plan never really worked in his household. Instead he tried the wide-eyed expression of innocence as he slowly rotated back to face his parents. “I just saw your algebra teacher, Mrs. Gustafson, in town today,” Jonathan continued, and although Clark was pretty sure his eyes didn’t get even wider with horror, he was afraid his lips may have twitched. Kind of like they were saying, ‘Oh, s—t.’ “She expressed her _concern_ to me”—and Jonathan’s voice was dripping with so much sarcasm, Clark had a feeling one of his ‘grounded’ chores would be mopping it up from the kitchen floor—“about your ‘accident’ in your truck.” Pause. Pause. Let the salt collect on the wound, then... RUB! “The one that damaged your algebra book so badly you had to buy a new one. For a hundred dollars.” Clark tried to look as though he were planning to speak at any moment, even though he had no idea what he was going to say. “Would you care to enlighten us, your _parents_ , about this accident?”

            “I paid for the book myself,” Clark pointed out. It was the first thing that came to mind.

            “That’s not the issue, honey,” his mom assured him, and the concern in her eyes just made Clark feel about as big as a _tick_ for lying to her. For the lying he was _about_ to do, that is. “Your father and I were just worried that something had—happened that you didn’t want to tell us about.”

            “I, um...” Clark blushed—of course—and he dropped his eyes to the kitchen floor, scuffing lightly at a corner of the tile. Okay, he wasn’t going to lie, he was just going to say it right out—it’s not like he would have to give them a lot of _details_ , he could let them assume he and Alice had just been... kissing. Yeah, kissing. Because they’d been dating almost a year and had never gotten further than first base. In his parents’ _dreams_... “I—lost control of my heat vision,” he finally mumbled.

            His parents did their patented tag-team move where they glanced at each other before looking back at him, making sure they were on the same page about their reactions. “You lost control of your heat vision, and... set your algebra book on fire?” Jonathan surmised with some confusion. “Son, I know math isn’t your favorite subject, but...”

            “No!” Clark protested, chancing some eye contact with them. “I mean, it was an accident, the book was just in the way. I’m just glad I didn’t hit a bale of hay...”

            “Wait,” Jonathan cut in, “you were in the _barn_ when you... lost control?”

            “Um, yeah,” Clark admitted faintly. He was back to staring at the floor again. Very interesting pattern in the tile his mom had picked out. Mesmerizing, almost.

            “When was this?” Martha questioned.

            “The other night.”

            There was a pause as his parents assessed the situation so far. Then Jonathan suggested, “Well, I think we need to figure out what caused this, Clark. That’s a pretty dangerous power to have going off when you don’t want it to.”

            “Yes, honey,” Martha agreed. “What exactly were you doing when it... came out?”

            Could he possibly, please, just this once, develop that power to sink through solid objects? Could he just melt down through the floor into the crawlspace, so that by the time they’d figured out how to get him out without ripping up the entire kitchen floor, they might have forgotten about this entire conversation? Was it possible that he might blush _so_ hard his head caught fire? And if that happened, should he run for the kitchen sink first, or just straight out to the lake at top speed?

            “I, uh, um, I was, uh...” Clark choked. Choked badly. Choked like an actor pretending to choke in a movie, a really _bad_ actor with a director who just didn’t care because he was only doing this movie so the studio heads would fund his vanity project about an angst-ridden post-boomer man-child heading home for his mother’s funeral. He tried spitting the words out as fast as he could, thinking that might make them less painful. Also he tried shutting his eyes. “I was in the barn, and I was—um--and Alice, and I was—um—about to—um—“

            Clark sensed a change in the room and cracked an eyelid, just a tiny bit. Now both his parents were blushing, and even when they tried to meet each other’s gazes, to make sure they were on the same page, they couldn’t quite do it. Oh G-d. If there was any justice in the world, the roof would collapse on him right now. Jonathan cleared his throat. “Well, um, son, I—“

            He glanced uncomfortably but significantly at Martha, who suddenly jumped off her stool and said brightly, “I just forgot, I have to go—check the cows.” And she was out the back door, Clark staring after her in confusion. That was weird, he had been sure the inevitable “boundaries and limitations and being careful” talk—aka, _THE_ Talk—would involve _both_ his parents. Because they had to do _everything_ as a family, even sex. And he totally did _not_ mean that the way it sounded. And not that talking to _just_ his dad about it made it measurably less excruciating. Clark just hoped they didn’t try to tell him he shouldn’t spend so much time with Alice, or that he could only see her under supervision.

            “Um, Dad, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—“ Clark tried to be proactive, but Jonathan held up a hand to cut him off.

            “No, no, that’s alright, son,” his father assured him.

            Clark goggled at him. “It is?”

            “Yes, of course,” Jonathan said, his tone embarrassed but surprisingly firm. “It’s a—um—perfectly natural thing to do, especially for—young people, and—“

            Clark narrowed his eyes, perplexed. “I thought you’d be mad at me,” he confessed.

            “Not at all,” Jonathan declared, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just, uh—the heat vision thing”—he chuckled a little nervously, and Clark followed suit, feeling a tiny hint of relief blossom—“not what most young fellas have to worry about, right?”

            “Right. Not to mention what happened to the couch.”

            Jonathan blinked at him. “What _did_ happen to the couch?”

            Clark gave a little subset blush within the context of the larger, overall blush. “I kind of... ripped part of it off.”

            “I see. That’s um... pretty, um... powerful feelings, there, Clark,” Jonathan commented.

            “Well, Alice is a pretty amazing girl...”

            “Yeah.” Jonathan sounded as if he’d rather not contemplate that thought too much. Clark agreed completely. “Anyway, son, just, uh—work on that as much as you need to,” Jonathan concluded, voicing dropping conspiratorially.

            Clark’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious? You don’t mind?”

            “Well, come on, now, Clark,” Jonathan told him, punching his shoulder lightly. “You gotta get that heat vision thing under control, and the—furniture ripping thing. Wouldn’t want you to be out with Alice--at some point in the distant future—and accidentally have that... happen.” Suddenly things became clear to Clark, and he blushed so hard he triggered a _reverse_ blush, where the blood actually _drained_ from his face as the horror spread across his mind. Jonathan pretended not to notice. “Just, uh, maybe next time—somewhere less flammable than the barn. The shower’s good.” Clark squeaked. He thought his vocal chords may have snapped. “Just don’t use up all the hot water.” Clark nodded dumbly.

            His father apparently took that as an appropriate response. “Well, Clark, I’m glad you feel like you can come to us with these things,” he concluded, then winced. “Talk to us about these things.” Clark winced. “Better go get ready for dinner, huh?” Jonathan slapped Clark firmly on the back, then released him. For Clark, this particular journey up to his room was the _slowest_ two milliseconds of his life.

 

            “It isn’t funny!” Clark huffed angrily, stomping down the wet sidewalk.

            Alice was still leaning against the fence ten feet back, doubled over with laughter, but he kept walking. It would serve her right if all his blood just stayed _permanently_ in his face from now on, instead of going to _other_ places, just because it had been such a frequent guest there lately. She caught up with him halfway down the block, still wiping away tears and sniffling.

            “It’s not funny,” Clark repeated sullenly.

            “Yes it is,” Alice countered, bursting into another fit of giggles.

            “It was mortifying. I thought about my head spontaneously combusting from the sheer humiliation of it. From my parents—my mom—thinking I was— _jerking off_ in the barn.” Clark hissed the last few words out, like he was exhaling acid fumes.

            “Oh, Clark,” Alice gasped, laughter erupting from her like lava from an active volcano. “Well, it’s not like you _haven’t_!” she pointed out cheerfully, when she could form a complete sentence. Two blocks later.

            “Alice, just—don’t even—“ Clark wasn’t sure _why_ he was mad at her, or even _if_ he was mad at her, but—the _sight_ of her just reminded him of some extremely embarrassing things at the moment. And he could really do without that right now. He started to cross the street without her.

            “Clark!” Alice trotted after him, massive and massively sexy boots that Clark absolutely hadn’t noticed clunking on the pavement. She grabbed his arm and didn’t let the fact that he didn’t react to her touch dissuade her. “I am really sorry, Clark—“

            “No, you aren’t.”

            “I’m really sorry that you were interrogated by your parents and embarrassed,” she finished, sounding almost sincere. He risked a glance at her. She looked very cute—sexy-cute—in her little red plaid miniskirt, which frighteningly matched his flannel shirt. But he couldn’t let that influence how he felt. “Here.”

            Alice dug something out of the pocket of her cropped black jacket and stuffed into Clark’s hand. He opened his fist hesitantly and found himself staring at a wad of bills, mostly ones and fives. “What’s this for?” he asked, startled.

            “Fifty bucks,” she replied, leaning her head against his shoulder. “My half of the book.”

            Clark sighed and tried to give it back. “Alice, you don’t have to, it was my fault.”

            “Please, don’t insult me like that,” Alice answered, mock-offended. “I’d like to think that I had a _little_ something to do with it.”

            “Well...” Clark felt himself caving. And that didn’t feel too bad at all.

            “Sorry it’s mostly ones,” she went on. “It’s tips, so...”

            “You sure you don’t want it back?” Clark offered.

            “My man comes with a price, but I’m willing to pay,” Alice told him lightly.

            Clark stuffed the money inside his jacket pocket and glanced around, up, sideways, any way but at Alice for a moment, until he was sure all the implications of her statement had faded from his short-term memory. They would come back later, at night when he was lying in bed, brooding and _not_ “working on his heat vision control,” as his father enjoyed euphemistically putting it lately. “Thanks,” he told her, and they were quiet for another half block.

            “Man, Pete is going to _die_ when he hears this,” Alice said after a moment, giggles starting again.

            “We are _so_ not telling Pete,” Clark replied firmly.

            “Not telling Pete what?” Pete asked innocently, jogging to catch up with them.

            “Oh, G-d,” Clark sighed. “Nothing?”

 

            “You got a new couch.”

            “Excellent observation, Clark,” Lex responded dryly, fetching two bottles of water from the mini-fridge. “Once it was brown leather; now it’s grey suede.”

            Clark rolled his eyes at his friend’s sarcasm. “What was wrong with the _old_ couch, Lex?” he asked, accepting the drink. “Brown leather go out of style or something?”

            Lex settled into the chair opposite him and shrugged. “I just realized I didn’t really like it very much,” he admitted, twisting the cap off his water.

            “You _just_ realized that,” Clark repeated, sipping his drink. “After, like, three years of sitting on that couch.”

            “I’m not very _brown_ ,” Lex explained, although the statement didn’t really explain _anything_ in Clark’s mind. “I’m more grey.” Clark gave him a look that conveyed the ridiculousness of that reasoning. The older man sighed. “Okay, fine, there were some... stain issues.”

            “Ah-ha!”

            “In _addition_ to me not really liking the couch,” Lex insisted.

            “Riiiiiight.” They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, enjoying their refreshment, as Clark tried to look as though he were imagining exactly _what_ kinds of stains Lex was referring to (without actually doing so, of course), and Lex pretended to glare at him. Finally Clark asked, “What’d you do with the old couch?”

            “Stuffed it into one of the _many_ rooms around here that has no purpose except to test the latest dust-cleaning products,” Lex assured him.

            Clark’s ears perked up. “You gonna keep it?” He worked hard to sound casual.

            “G-d, no, I don’t want it,” his friend replied. “I just haven’t figured out how to get rid of it yet. Leaving it on the street outside the house seems a little...”

            “Trashy?” Clark suggested.

            “College student,” Lex corrected. “I suppose I could donate it somewhere. The hospital or the library or the police station...”

            “A four thousand dollar leather couch in the lobby of the Smallville police station?” Clark smirked.

            “I guess it _would_ look a little out of place,” Lex admitted.

            They were quiet for a moment. “Um...” Clark began tentatively. “I could take it.”

            Much to Clark’s disappointment, Lex immediately shook his head. “Clark, come on, your parents wouldn’t let you take a brand-new truck for saving my life,” he pointed out. “They’re sure as h—l not going to take a three-year-old leather couch because it has a stain. I wouldn’t _want_ to give it to them, anyway,” he continued, before Clark could protest. “Too much like a hand-me-down.”

            “It wouldn’t be for my _parents_ ,” Clark clarified. He wondered if he would get this out without embarrassing himself. “It’d be for me. I’d put it in the loft.”

            “The loft,” Lex repeated flatly. Clark nodded. “You’d put my four thousand dollar leather couch in the _barn_?”

            “You _said_ you didn’t want it anymore,” the teenager pointed out, suddenly feeling awkward.

            “No, no, of course you can _have_ it, if you _want_ it, Clark,” Lex assured him hastily. “It’s just—don’t you have a couch up there already?”

            “Yeah, but it’s—old and lumpy,” Clark told him. “And kind of—broken.”

            The teenager’s tone of voice caught Lex’s attention. “What do you mean, broken?”

            “Um, you know, busted springs, holes in the fabric,” Clark hedged, adding in a small voice, “Big chunk taken out of the back...”

            Lex raised his eyebrows. “What was that?”

            Nope, no way to avoid embarrassment, Clark decided, cheeks flushing as he remembered exactly _how_ the chunk had been removed. It was a wonder he’d managed to keep any secrets at all, the way he tended to blurt things out... “The wooden frame, of the back, broke the other day,” he explained, trying to sound as if this were a perfectly normal occurrence. “Maybe the wood was... rotted or something...”

            The blush told Lex more than the actual words, and he hid his smile behind his bottle of water. When the older man didn’t say anything right away, however, Clark suddenly felt like he might be imposing on his friend’s goodwill and contradicted himself hurriedly. “Well, the couch is fine, really, it’s in a barn after all...”

            Lex gave him an appraising eye. “Your old couch... I seem to recall that it’s a little _short_ for you.”

            “Well, yeah, I guess,” Clark admitted warily, wondering where this was going.

            “Also, probably, kind of... _narrow_.”

            “Um...”

            “As in,” Lex elaborated, “difficult to fit _two_ people comfortably, when both are in a horizontal position.”

            “I wouldn’t know,” Clark answered primly, much to Lex’s amusement.

            “You know, Clark,” Lex chuckled, “my old couch was actually a sofa bed.”

            “Really?” the teenager asked, a little too eagerly, setting his friend off again.

            “You can have it, Clark,” Lex assured him. “As long as I know it will be used for a good cause.”

            “Napping, Lex, napping,” Clark insisted, grinning through pinkened cheeks.

            “Riiiiiight,” Lex replied, mimicking Clark’s earlier comment. “I can have the movers bring it over tomorrow, if you want.”

            “Oh, that’s okay,” Clark answered without thinking, “Alice and I can get it—“ He cut himself off at Lex’s expression of disbelief.

            “It’s a _really heavy_ couch, Clark,” the older man pointed out. “It’s got a _bed_ folded up in it, after all. Maybe you’d better let the professional movers handle it?”

            “Um, yeah,” Clark conceded. “Probably a better idea.”

 

            “Oh, cool! You got a new couch!” Alice ran her hands over the buttery brown leather. “Wait... Isn’t this _Lex’s_?”

            “He was getting rid of it,” Clark assured her, sliding his arms around her waist.      “Something about, I don’t know... _stains_.”

            “Ewwwww,” Alice exclaimed. “We will never speak of that again.”

            “Okay,” Clark agreed. “There’s just one thing, though.” He studied the couch sitting in the middle of the barn. “I got the movers to leave it _here_. But we have to figure out how to get it up _there_ ,” he added, glancing up at the loft. Clark had decided rather quickly that he wasn’t going to risk the lives of the professional movers trying to force a _very_ heavy couch around the winding stairs up to the loft.

            Alice scrutinized the layout of the barn. “Hmmm,” she decided. “This would be a lot easier if _you_ could fly, too.”

            “Sorry.”

            She looked back at the couch. “Well, maybe I can do it myself.” Experimentally Alice picked up one end of the couch, as easily as if it were made of Styrofoam. “Doesn’t seem too difficult.”

            “I think it’s just kind of awkward,” Clark offered. “I mean, it’s really _meant_ to be carried by both ends, or, you know, on a forklift. I’m afraid it might break if one of us just grabs it somewhere.”

            “That’s a good thought,” Alice conceded. Clark could see the wheels turning in her head. “How about... if _I_ fly, and you take the other end and walk up the stairs?”

            “Sounds good to me,” Clark smiled. “And if anyone asks, we hoisted it up with ropes and pulleys, right?”

            “Right,” Alice grinned.


End file.
